Novel Full Chapter 836: 836: Taste Test
Chapter 836: Chapter 836: Taste Test
Ronan scrubbed the same countertop for the fourth time. The wood grain gleamed, polished to perfection, but still, his hand moved in tight, agitated circles. His other arm trembled slightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The shop had never been this clean—tables straightened, jars realigned with militant precision, even the flickering lantern in the corner had been replaced with a fresh one that cast a steady glow.
But despite his efforts, the gnawing anxiety wouldn’t leave.
His muscles ached, a dull throb in his arms, legs, and lower back. Since losing most of his muscle mass, his body had grown soft, unaccustomed to long hours of movement. Now, with each shift of weight, a new sting reminded him just how fragile he had become. He hadn’t moved this much in months, maybe years.
And still, none of it was enough to calm him.
His eyes flicked toward the dusty clock above the pantry door.
Almost 11 am.
The time the Knight usually came. Right before the lunch hour rush.
Ronan’s heart began hammering, a desperate thud that filled his ears. With shaking fingers, he reached into the inner pocket of his apron and pulled out the vial.
It was small. Unassuming. A colourless liquid sloshed inside it, appearing no different from ordinary water. He had tried, several times, to store it in his space ring. Each time it rejected the item, which just confirmed that despite its ordinary appearance, whatever this poison was, it wasn’t normal.
The mysterious masked man –Darius— hadn’t told him how it worked. No instructions. No details. Not even a warning. Was it one drop? The whole thing? Could it kill through skin contact? Inhalation?
Could it explode?
Ronan stared at the vial like it might lunge at him.
He didn’t want to do this. But he didn’t have a choice. Darius had made that clear. Orders were orders, and the mysterious masked group of people he had gotten entangled with may not just let him go quietly.
With trembling hands, he approached the pot of soup, one of several options kept in labelled soup warmers.
It was the Knight’s usual order: Vigorous Blood Cow smoked marrow broth, stewed overnight with spiritual root vegetables and shaved wild faewood. He loved this dish. Came for it almost daily. Ronan always made sure there was some an adequate amount remaining around this time. Thankfully he wasn’t responsible for making the complex soup from scratch, the chef (also the owner of the store) at the back took care of that, while Ronan dealt with everything at the front of the store.
He clenched his jaw and tried to tilt the vial gently.
‘Just a drop,’ he thought. ‘Just one. Right in the center, so I can scoop it back out if it looks weird. Easy. Simple.’
But his hand betrayed him.
His fingers shook so violently that instead of tipping out a drop, the entire vial slipped from his grip with a soft clink and—
plop—into the soup.
“Shit!” Ronan hissed.
He lunged forward, grabbing the ladle from its hook and fishing around in the soup like a man possessed. The vial bobbed to the surface, glass catching the light, and he snatched it out, slapping it onto the counter with a wet clink.
No cracks. Still intact.
But that didn’t matter, did it? The damage was done. The liquid inside had completely leaked out. Fortunately, it didn’t react with the soup or change colour. The soup looked like usual.
His breath was shallow, heart clawing up his throat.
And that was when the voice came.
“Did you accidentally drop the entire salt shaker into the soup?”
Ronan froze.
His spine straightened slowly, painfully, and he turned.
The Knight stood right in front of him at the counter. His tone was casual, as if making small talk. But his grey eyes—those damn cold, piercing eyes—were locked onto Ronan like a wolf eyeing a nervous hare.
Ronan’s mind splintered into panic.
‘Does he know? Did he see something? Smell something? Am I sweating that much? Is the poison leaking onto the floor? Is it eating through the pot?!’
He forced his body into a stiff nod. “Y-yeah. Clumsy me.”
The Knight stepped further in, his boots thudding lightly on the wooden floor. He didn’t smile. He rarely did. His gaze moved to the soup, then back to Ronan.
“Try it,” he said.
Ronan blinked. “What?”
“If it tastes the same, I’ll order it again. If not, I’ll pick something else.”
Ronan’s stomach turned. He looked at the pot like it had grown fangs. Try it? Try it?! It was poisoned! The whole thing was poisoned! If it was strong enough to bring down a six-star beast tamer like the Knight, what would it do to someone like him?
He’d die. No doubt. Probably painfully.
He glanced toward the door. For a second, he imagined bolting—running down the alley behind the shop, disappearing into the city. But that was a fantasy. Even if the Knight didn’t catch him, the masked man’s people would. If they didn’t kill him, they’d do something worse.
And if he didn’t taste it? The Knight would know something was wrong.
Suspicion. Interrogation. Torture. A quiet execution.
Damn it.
With hands that barely obeyed him, Ronan ladled a small portion of the soup into a tasting cup. He shut his eyes, muttered a silent prayer to gods he didn’t believe in, and threw it back like a shot of whiskey.
He swallowed.
Waited.
First thought: ‘Mmm. That’s… actually really good. I get it now. I should’ve tried it before.’
Second thought: ‘Oh gods, I just drank POISON!’
His hands shook slightly as he set the cup down. His lips parted.
“It tastes the same,” he said, forcing a smile. “Still delicious.”
That last part wasn’t a lie. Which, maybe, was what sold it.
The Knight watched him for a moment longer, then gave a single, slow nod. “Good.”
He approached the counter, and paid in cash. Perhaps to avoid being traced, he always paid in cash unlike most who paid by scanning their ID cards.
Ronan, stiff and trembling, scooped out a full portion into a styrofoam container, sealed it, and handed it over. Their hands didn’t touch.
“Thanks,” the Knight said.
And then he turned and walked to his usual seat by the far window.
Ronan stood there, still holding the ladle like a weapon. His breath came in shallow bursts. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck.
But he wasn’t dead. Not yet. Maybe the poison wasn’t meant for ingestion and he used it wrong. Maybe it needed a catalyst. Or time. Or maybe—maybe—he was just immune. A ridiculous hope, but the brain clings to anything in moments of crisis.
From across the room, the Knight sat down.
But he didn’t start eating.
He placed the container on the table and rested his chin on one hand. His cold grey eyes were trained on Ronan with unsettling intensity.
Just watching.
Like he was waiting for something.
Ronan’s knees nearly buckled. He turned and busied himself behind the counter, pretending to clean again, every movement mechanical.
In his mind, a thousand thoughts swirled.